Once upon a Memory
by Emmanuel Park
Summary: In a blink of an eye, she has forgotten her life and left alone in a foreign reality just as cruel as her own. But when she enters the higher society for an opportunity to find the familiar remains of her memories, not everything is simple during an era of turmoil. [Anime/Manga]
1. Prologue

**(Revised date: April 13, 2016)**

* * *

**"Once upon a Memory"**

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

_"But there's no such thing as a completely fresh start. Everything new arrives on the heels of something old, and every beginning comes at the cost of an ending."_

―Jennifer E. Smith, _The Geography of You and Me_

* * *

_London, 2014_

In the mid-afternoon in July, the sky was nowhere to be seen.

The fog enveloped beyond the borders of the abandoned town, fresh from the city's smoke and the pleasant smell of the rain after the long scorching heat, although there wasn't a hint of dew or the scent of the ocean. A thick layer at the town itself as if protecting whatever untouched history it held.

Extending her hand forward, she clenched her fists as if she was stroking it, but it only slipped and passed through the clear air. Daniella paced and positioned her camera, but there was nothing but a blur. She restlessly circled the area and avoided as so much as a step into the abandoned town. Erosion almost entirely deformed the structures, but it was still there — the essence of classic revival and roof slates and patterned brickwork.

_Unnecessary observations,_ she hissed, shaking her head in disbelief. _Useless, useless, useless._

From where she stood, Daniella observed the Victorian town and stood on a weathered road pointing beyond the unclear end. There it swallows the people whole, traces of their visit were gone and buried, cases filed and forgotten.

"A dog-obsessed town, I heard," her uncle had said, nonchalantly flipping through the pages of _Catcher in the Rye _without giving a minute for a thorough read. "But it was ruthless and just as questionable as the history goes: speaking of irrelevant superstition and Demon Hounds."

Daniella nodded, elbow on the table and chin on her palm. "People would believe in any hearsay."

Yet she blindly ventures forward to the obscure path, patches of withered grass leaving a satisfying crunch under her steps. It feels so right — to find peace in the sound of silence.

And, from here, it begins with "once upon a time."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Ha, funny… I was ready to take negative blows from the note I left and make it as a stupid excuse to leave the story, but then I met one unexpected event after the other: that guest (you know who you are and I will hug you, you sweetheart. You didn't fail to make me smile) and those typical "hey writers don't give up" posts. I can't update faster, sadly. You know how reality can be, so isn't that partly why we're all here?

Responding to said guest, you're half-right.

I dedicate this to all of you, old readers, new readers, and to my dear beta and friend... thanks for just being here. This story grew a sentimental value and I realized so many things. There's no way I'm going to stop this now.

Thank you for reading. Leave a review if it feels fine now.


	2. I: Beginning

**Chapter I:**

* * *

_"Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning. " _

―Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_

* * *

Every morning reminds her of the familiar scent of an antique novelty item from a grandparent's room. Considering she is residing in the nineteenth century, she feels like she is the ancestral ground, the tangy scent of nostalgia filling her nostrils.

How Daniella Trivett got here, she doesn't have a clue. The fact she belongs to a different timeline is something she wouldn't discover if it weren't for Augustine's investigation. What she knew in the past were blatantly irrelevant to her and the true answers lay dormant on a faraway cavern in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

One good look at her reflection saw the product of a soul who made it at the end of it all when she should have died long ago from as simple as a fever to an uneventful brawl on the abandoned heart of Old Nichol***** that would blatantly lead to murder. Living somewhere the roads in the middle and working class, she would be just another passerby; her features blurred a second after and no one can deduce she is someone who is supposedly out-of-place. It was about time the uneven tips of her chocolate brown hair reached her shoulders and phased into a more "womanly" appearance, as stated by society's another bothersome teaching.

Buttoning the cuffs of her sleeve, she went towards the canopy door and pushed it, the low creak signaled her presence downstairs. However, hearing another voice, besides her father, doesn't seem to unease her in the slightest.

"Good morning, Daniella," Augustine said and waved, freshly washed auburn hair swaying from side to side, spectacles tucked safely in his breast pocket, and the top hat he's usually fond of wearing was set aside on the coat rack.

Bathed with death and carrying the stereotypical air of decay, it's ironic to see a Grim Reaper filled with life.

She returned the gesture and gave a small smile. Daniella found herself lingering at her father's slanted gaze, still ever so sure, how her own eyes would look plain and lifeless compared to his own; an unnatural shade of yellow and his pupils encircled with the shades of a limerick.

"Good morning," Undertaker pipes in, startling the two residents, right hand occupied with a ceramic cup and the free hand waving at her, long fingernails sticking out. "Are you ready for tomorrow, dear?"

Augustine glared and pointed to the door. "What — Undertaker, get the bloody hell out of my house."

He merely grinned, unaffected with the warning, "Is that how you give hospitality to a visitor, especially to an old _friend_?"

Sensing the foreshadowed argument, she remained silent and stepped backward. _Too late to hide now?_ Daniella thought, turning around as she tries to go back to her room and the creaking sounds of the stairs didn't help at all, giving away her hidden objective. She winced, No, not now.

Sensing the attempted escape, he turned his attention to the stairway, locking eyes with dull brown irises. "Where do you think _you're_ going? Sit down."

The girl sulked and went to her seat, staring at the buttered toast on the platter. He pushed his glasses up. "Daniella, it's not that I hate you — and his — from your decision, but you're risking too much just for, what? Because do you think it can trigger your memories back?"

Undertaker's sharp-toothed grin didn't leave. It never does.

She took a long sip of her tea. "Once the deed is done, I'll immediately resign if you want."

And resign she shall when she finally gets what she wants, as she never intended to stay in that kind of occupation for long. She didn't want her waiting family to see her with a broken neck in a closed casket.

Augustine sighed and continued after taking the last bite of his breakfast. "I'm just saying that you don't need to do something so dangerous."

Daniella placed her cup down. "It's not really dangerous . . . ," she countered.

If that wasn't the understatement of the year, she didn't know what is.

"Did the previous one die a heart attack? Not an assassination?"

After the unfortunate and unknown death of the previous Royal Guardian, the Queen initiated a tournament to pick out the best person for the occupied position. No one expected for a girl, with no royal title engraved with her name whatsoever, to enter, much less be the one who will make it to the finals. The two finalists were given a day to prepare themselves and engage in the match tomorrow morning.

"Royal Guardian" wasn't an official British government title. A sentimental namesake, rather, from a man who so willingly helped the people below him. There was no malice, no corruption, nothing to gain in return.

Her Majesty was perfectly fine with a woman competing, as long as the latter can prove her worth, and an excellent opportunity to present there is no discriminating barrier to serving the Queen and the country. However, it didn't mean that made her acceptable in the eyes of many.

She scoffed. Only a naïve idiot would believe it.

"You're a worrywart, Augustine," Undertaker said, "but do you think she's not capable enough if she hasn't made it this far?"

"You always take her side . . . ," Augustine scowled.

He cackled. "She knows the best jokes — even if it took her a millennium to get it right — and it's all about 'give and take', hm?"

Augustine raised his hands in defeat. "Fine, finish what you've started and I won't give a damn anymore. The last thing I need is when you cut your hair and become less ladylike than before."

Daniella stood up and fixed the creases of her dress, her determination wavering. "I think I need to go outside for a bit, excuse me."

* * *

As soon as she was out of earshot, Augustine spoke first. "Oh, and Undertaker?"

Undertaker singsonged, "Yes?"

He pointed to the door. "Get out of my house."

Pouting, he puts his feet on the table and leans in his chair, for the sake of mockery.

* * *

Hyde Park looked less crowded and cameras less professional unlike the recollections of the modernized tourist spot. There were a few high-class nobles insight accompanied by their respective chaperones and families. That was all there is, as all who fall in and below the middle class must labour themselves until dusk.

As the benefit of helping, her father financially is the perfect opportunity and the thrill to alleviate her boredom, Daniella would still have last minute doubts about her decision. This wasn't entirely her idea, but the Undertaker's doing. If there were another alternative to demanding her mind to recover her memory and the information Daniella needed on how she got here, she would've grabbed it in a heartbeat. However, it is too late for regrets.

Without another word, she stood from the bench and exhaled as she made her way back. There are errands that need to be done before sunset.

"I'll be fine . . . right?"

* * *

**[ . . . ]**

* * *

_"You'll be fine!"_

_In her eyes, she could see the nine-year-old Paul earning nods of approval from his coach. Be one of the younger pupils who were admired from such discipline and gallant strikes. She felt a surge of pride well through her chest, it didn't seem impossible, after all!_

_The dream popped like a bubble from his quivering frame on the first day of his practice session._

_They stood near the entrance of their city's fencing club, the door opening and closing from children in their whites and foils safely secured in a case behind their backs. When the chilling breeze of Autumn flew from the northwest, Daniella immediately regretted not wearing a long-sleeved dress and her hair long enough to protect her neck._

_For a moment, Paul's stiffened shoulders relaxed, but he still held his breath and clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. Curious, her small hand found itself to touch his, eyes widening at how cold as the breeze it is. When he felt the contact, his head whirled to look down at her and her head looking up at his restless eyes. It ceased to shake and he managed a small smile. Without exchanging words, that same pale hand went to ruffle her hair and grin from ear to ear. Paul turned to Dad and nodded to assure him._

_"That's my boy." Dad grinned. "Let me tell you this: don't be afraid if you've made your mistake. Just stand up and put your best foot forward. Like this." He curled his hand and pretended to hold a foil's handle, swiping his arm in a fluid motion with a defensive stance. The siblings watched in awe as Dad laughed. "Strange that your uncle and I knew fencing. No wonder we get along so well, almost like our family's second language."_

_"Won't it hurt?" Daniella asked, poking the case of his equipment. "Getting stabbed by a sword?"_

_"Of course, it won't," Paul said matter-of-factly, but eventually made a face of doubt and horror, quickly turning to Dad for clarification. "It — it won't, right?"_

_"If it did, I'd be long dead. It would just bend at contact," Dad said, turning his attention to his watch. "Your class is almost starting. You'd better get inside."_

_"All right." Before he could get inside, he turned back and waved. "Goodbye!"  
_

_"Bye bye!" she yelled and cheerfully waved both of her arms, watching her brother's steady shoulders as he advances inside the door._

_Despite the nerves still lingering in his voice, there is a certain light in his eyes she could not ignore._

* * *

**(*) Old Nichol: **_In the Victorian era, Old Nichol was London's most infamous slum._


	3. II: Surprise

**C****hapter II**

* * *

_"Things to do today:_

_1.) Breathe in._

_2.) Breathe out."_

—Ned Vizzini, _It's Kind of a Funny Story_

* * *

_London Millennium Footbridge in Thames Embankment, London_

"You're reading _The Little Prince_?"

The bridge was a suspension of steel and glass, seeing the River Thames on their feet. Tourists came and left as autumn marked on an early September morning and the people passed through as a sea of blurry premonitions. They gather near the sides and children pressing their noses against the glass, eyes twinkling at the lights. Augustine took the book from his arm and showed the worn leathered cover with its wrinkled pages. Even without looking at him, his reflection of the glass showed his smile.

Ever since she stepped foot here, she needed to rid of this sense of unease. Something was wrong, yet there wasn't any to point her finger at. From her brother participating in a fencing competition at Westminster for the following week and Dad's new job, they had no reason to not bring the entire family to London. While there was a plan of permanently moving and continuing their education here, she'd still need this entire morning to herself.

Had she not wanted this? To travel overseas and see the skyline painted with London's beautiful flickering lights, to study and practice with her brother. What else could she want? Certainly not the silly chase of love and fate. A future of her own, then? She snickered. Not now, she reminded herself. The present is hectic as it is.

"It was fate to read this," Augustine told her. "I kept seeing this in every bookstore I stumble upon. You could say I didn't regret it."

When she felt a pain surge through her head, she rubbed her temples. She eyed the family of tourists compressed against each other so they could fit in the camera's shot and grinned when one of them nearly toppled over the edge.

"I see," Daniella smiled, as she scanned through the digital photo gallery of her camera. It was full of sceneries, sunsets, and the towering buildings. "I loved it, too. Can you read me a quote? It's certainly been a while."

"Anything?"

"Anything," she confirmed.

"All right," he said with raised eyebrows, opening the worn book to the bookmarked page. "_'One day,' you said to me, 'I saw the sunset forty-four times!'_

_"And a little later you added: 'You know — one loves the sunsets when one is so sad.'_

_"'Were you sad, then?' I asked, 'on the day of the —*****'"_

A breath escaped her nose and scoffed, shoving his arm. "Funny, _very_ funny."

"Are you in denial?" Augustine teased.

Ignoring the latter's words; Daniella went ahead without him and chuckled when she heard his hurrying footsteps behind her.

It's good to be back to the old days.

**.**

_But what _were _the old days?_

**.**

_Clock Tower in City of Westminster, London_

She held the camera positioned to the top of Big Ben, but the harsh sunlight made it impossible to get a clear shot.

"I never thought I'd see you here. It's certainly a surprise," Augustine said, and Daniella gave a nod, too fixated on adjusting her camera. "Your father never told me you'd all come to London. I could have come prepared."

Click. "We'll only be here for a few weeks for Paul's fencing event, so I thought to take the chance and wander around for a few souvenirs," she replied offhandedly. "Besides, Dad would be too busy calling anyone anyhow."

Daniella felt like laughing, all the arguments and rebellion and impulsive decisions to get Dad agree to let her be in this photography course flashed. "What good would that get you?" he'd say and she would say nothing, simply looking at him with a defiant gaze. She couldn't have imagined Paul would be the spitting image of him: a nest of rebellious curls no matter how much he slicked his hair back. Obliviousness ran in the family.

Paul disappointed her sometimes. She almost wanted to yell at her brother to develop a bit more backbone so he wouldn't have to follow their father's every whim, to still be making art and fence at the same time without pulling that stupid fake smile of his every time.

Augustine raised a brow but continued. "You're into photography?" When she lifted her head to meet his eyes, Augustine gestured his index finger to the camera, "Since when?"

"Ever since you left," she said, raising her eyebrows. Realizing her mistake, Daniella shook her head and hissed. "Ah, sorry for being rude there. I shouldn't be —"

"No, no, it's all right," Augustine said with a feeble grin, "but that apology isn't supposed to be meant for me. It must have been a rough time for your father lately."

Daniella didn't dare look up and, instead, she urged him to come closer to the Clock Tower for a better angle. They both fell stopped at one spot to the other and neither of them could think of breaking their fragile silence, but their surroundings are as noisy as ever — the purr of the engines, the boisterous laughter and sighs of awe, gossips from women and business talk from men, the shutter of a camera . . .

And the only sound they could clearly hear is the tick of the Clock Tower hovering over them, counting the remaining hours, minutes, and seconds they have before the end of the day.

**.**

When they decided to leave for lunch, she stared at the ticking hands of Big Ben and, seeing it was a few minutes until three o'clock, she fished out her phone.

"Did you know a Twitter account of Big Ben tweets _'BONG BONG BONG_'***** every hour?" she asked him, anticipating a reaction.

As if on cue, Big Ben chimed its bell and resonated throughout the city. There was also a new message on the account — _"BONG BONG BONG BONG"_ — and Augustine snickered. "Seriously?"

She nodded, only smiling in relief.

**.**

_Buckingham Palace in City of Westminster, London_

It wasn't until late afternoon they made it to the Palace. The doors of the Buckingham Palace didn't always open to the public, but allowed to observe as far as the front gates. Unfortunately, this was one of those times. Even so, children and adults alike were delighted to see the sentinels' red tunic attire and a bearskin hat, keeping an apathetic face while a tourist's daughter tried to provoke him by poking at his sides. Daniella also felt an urge to do the same and invite her brother if she weren't a grown adult.

"This is the last one you want to check?" Augustine asked. "Those guys are too busy going in and out of the Palace; chances of seeing them from here are slim to none."

Daniella tilted her head sideways on the gate railings, eyes looking around expectantly to see anyone passing through. She did find, however, a peculiar pair strolling around the garden, chatting without a care in the world. She found their outfits too outlandish for an official, white-themed uniforms and a sword hanging on their belts. Were they supposed to be guards?

Before she could get a closer look, Augustine tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, "What are you staring at out there? The sentinels are glancing at us."

She whirled around, but they were long gone. And, in the depths of her mind, she wanted to panic, but she only froze right there, eyes locked on where the two men once stood. The spell broke when she heard her phone ring and hurriedly picked it up, but as soon as she recognized her Dad's number on the screen, she slammed the phone shut.

"Who was that?" Augustine inquired, peering through the phone's screen.

She shrugged. "Nobody important," and left it at that.

He opened his mouth to question her further, but a friendly inquiry came out instead. "So," Augustine began, "do you think you can beat your brother this time?"

Daniella shook her head, taking pictures of the road. "Me defeating someone who made it to the finals round is a zero chance."

It was a fact, as far as she's concerned. Daniella handled the calculations, and Paul managed the arts. She draws the background, and he draws the people and abstract and creates photo collages. Fencing is one of their few common traits. Their father enrolled them during their summer break six years ago.

Paul, who was ten years old, was against it and stated reasonable excuses like "too young" or "too small and had even cried over a tiny paper cut." Being a child of six, she whined and insisted until they all came to an agreement to enrol both of them, much to their mother's amusement. The first few weeks weren't naturally pleasant for any newcomer, but, surprisingly, Paul encouraged her as much as he could.

"Give up if you want to give up, no one's stopping you," he'd said, shrugging. "But, you know, giving up and running away won't help you, either. Do you understand me?"

Daniella tilted her head, "No," she said.

Paul chortled a giggle and ruffled her hair. It was thin and not as plenty as his thick, brown nest of curls, so her hair didn't look dishevelled. "You won't get it now, but remember what I said and you'll get it when you're older." He showed a wide grin, flashing his teeth. "Then you'll thank me for being so wise."

She pursed her lips, noticing a piece of chocolate stuck between his lower teeth. Her shoulders shook, then came out a giggle, which turned into a fit of laughter and held her stomach. There's a difference between a wise man and experiencing brief flashes of epiphany.

She turned her back on Buckingham Palace and found the two men once more. Taking the chance, she quickly snapped a photo and fumbled over the gallery. It came out as nothing more than a landscape view of the garden.

"That looks nice," Augustine remarked. "Guess you do have it in you, after all."

"Yeah," she stammered, keeping her head low and her eyes blinking fast.

It must be exhaustion. Daniella rocked forward and pressed on, each picture swimming in a blur until she abruptly stopped at a sudden sharp pain in her head, her knees falling to the ground. She heard cries of agony and, somehow, her own. Her eyes fell into Augustine, concerned brown eyes changing into chartreuse.

Then Buckingham Palace stood no more.

* * *

**[ . . . ]**

* * *

1888

Daniella jolted awake, feeling a heavy weight slam down her chest. She ran her hand through her hair and lay down again to stare at the ceiling. Doubt rushed over her mind, whether to believe if it was all a piece of fiction or a memory. Dreams were a distortion of both, then it means it's true. Her home isn't here, but something else entirely, though she couldn't fully lean on instinct alone.

There were some details that could wipe it all away — a Deserter freely wandering the Westminster streets, the way they met at the park, and the two butlers, Double Charles: Charles Phipps and Charles Grey. She saw them during the trials, giving out instructions, guiding each participant — well, one of them did — and pacing the hallways during their breaks. She must have seen them so much that their appearance carved into her mind, strange how they commonly wear white and silver from hair to clothing. Would it be amusing to presume the Queen of England is fond of white-haired butlers or a drama of long-lost siblings? (And how was it biologically possible?)

She wiped her palms on the sheets, shaking herself back to the matter at hand. Today is the competition and swallow the gnawing tension crawling on her back. This was reckless and bold of her to show herself in a competition normally meant for nobles. She had no formal training, no actual mentor, and especially no assigned classes.

Standing to take the foil's case hanging on her doorknob and unsheathing it, laughter escaped her. Augustine had a good amount of knowledge in a sword fight and that Undertaker — his cackles echoed in her thoughts as she remembered him — was quite a monster himself from their sparring sessions, all at a price for giving him a hearty laughter, which was both a humiliating and more tiring than their practices.

So, really, what was there to worry about?

**.**

_Royal Agricultural Hall in Islington, London_

There are many reasons she has to worry about.

"But there should be no room for doubt," her father had said. She took deep breaths and fiddled with her handle. The remaining participants must already wear their respective fencing masks and only to remove it at the end of the game. To hold it at the Royal Agricultural Hall made her realize the significant weight whether she wins or loses (humiliation, no doubt); to empty the spacious halls and reduce the audience to family members and Her Majesty and her faithful butlers.

He — rival, enemy, final challenger, noble — brought his family while she didn't bring hers, but no one would give it much attention. It's easy to make an excuse. Business, traveling, personal subjects, dead. . . .

The latter wouldn't be plausible. They'd immediately know the lie.

A girl cheered merrily, perfect blonde curls swaying, her eyes radiating with utter glee that it could light up the room without any need for the arena's chandelier. Daniella sat across of them, only to make out murmurs and smiles worth a thousand words. (Lucky prat.)

Edward Midford. Son of the British Knights. Lord of Midford. An aristocrat, which her father warned to never trust most of them, bloody scoundrels that they were. Daniella never understood his hate for the nobles.

"The longer you served your years as the Reaper, memories gradually fade," Augustine had said. "Or you could not. It depends."

She didn't bother to ponder whether her rival is a chivalrous man and not worth for a snarl. Her opponent's identity is no longer a surprise, thanks to his family's attendance. Yet it felt like as if it was _expected. _She thanked the Heavens that they don't know about her, for now. The purpose of keeping the masks on was gone for the count.

The Marchioness scolded her husband and the daughter to silence them. It effectively silenced her trail of thoughts, too.

The boy with an eye patch on his right eye and the butler beside them stayed quiet as if doing his best to stay behind the shadows. Probably part of the family, she thought, as the young boy interacted with his butler and seldom to them. Their eyes darted to the Midfords, Her Majesty, to herself, then to each other. A boy who looked five years younger than her and already looked like an adult more than she could ever be. Interesting and insulting. (But mostly leaned to interesting.)

Charles Phipps called the challengers to the center and each competitor complied. Daniella glanced at her rival, Edward, whose head focused on them with his fists clenched, paying attention to her sister hugging that one-eyed boy. Protectiveness? Jealousy? She could feel the gaping heat from their distance, even though if it wasn't directed at her. He's practically fuming and gritting his teeth behind that headgear, ready to pounce and slice on the unfortunate soul.

Besides the Queen, John Brown took a step forward and signaled to begin. Daniella took out a breath and stood on her defensive stance as Edward charged forward, foils clashing within a fine line.

She didn't know why, but she felt as light as a feather and the adrenaline took over by her actions, all the while her mind played a memory — or a daydream? She could no longer tell — of a similar tournament. Her gaze fixated on a certain fencer, skilfully evading and executing each response as the crowd applauded in awe. She saw it as a dance, a Her breathing calmed down and focused on the game, driven by the newfound confidence that she, too, can do just as well as he is.

"So," she heard Augustine's words echo from the dream, loud and clear, "do you think you can beat your brother this time?"

She straightened her back. "Of course, I can," she muttered under her breath and stepped forward once. Twice.

_Advance, parry, riposte._

**.**

"Valid!"

The woman loosened her hold on the hilt of her foil and froze in her place, trying to register what happened. She could no longer hold it in as her lips lift upward, the euphoria of success and the cool air washed over her with relief. No months of torture she endured went to waste. If her father was here . . . if he would ever be here.

When the Queen's aide declared her as the winner, she extended her gloved hand to Edward and helped him stand up. They both removed their helmets at the sound of an order, inhaling the fresh air and exhaling a puff of breath. Daniella raked her fingers through her hair and rubbed her forehead against her arm, wiping off the sweat.

They all knew who went to Edward, but it was the results which caused the fleeting silence. A woman from the middle class, who would ever think a day like that would come? Daniella found herself comparing to Marchioness Midford's situation when she entered a match herself, except she was a noble.

After returning to their afternoon attire, they found themselves on the sides of the Hall, small conversations became easier and now it didn't feel like they were the center of attention, not to Her Majesty's eyes, but his family. When they asked for each other's names, when he introduced her to his family, when she told him the reason her family wasn't here ("He went to Lambeth for business matters," she said), when she asked what school he attended to ("Weston College," he answered), and when he asked where she got her training ("From my father. He was a soldier," she answered.)

She could've sworn Edward's father was glancing at his wife, who gave him an odd look.

Daniella remarked Edward's silence had gone longer than usual, who looked to be in deep thought. Short blonde hair and emerald green eyes; wearing a sophisticated suit and a dignified stance. He was not worth scoffing at, after all. "Lord Midford?" She waved a hand to his face, giving a smile that barely reached her eyes. "Is everything all right?"

Edward immediately jerked away, heat rising up to his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "My apologies."

Daniella blinked. "Is the heat affecting you?" she asked, brows furrowing. "You're as red as those curtains."

Edward nodded, abruptly excusing himself and approached his family. Alexis patted him on the shoulder and a soft chuckle passed Francis' lips as if sharing an inside joke. Elizabeth smiled as Edward shushed his parents and whipped his head to meet the Earl to divert their attention, then ranting about his worthless existence in his sister's life. The Queen chuckled at the whole scene while one of the Double Charles rolled his eyes.

Is she in a comedy skit?

Elizabeth approached Daniella and an angelic smile spreads across her face. "Congratulations, Miss Trivett. That was amazing!" she said, taking her hand.

She returned the gesture. "Thank you, Lady Midford."

"Lizzy is fine. A friend of my brother is also a friend of mine." Elizabeth grinned. "Will you visit us from time to time? I am sure my brother will truly appreciate it."

Edward's eyes widened. "_L-Lizzy . . .!_"

Daniella couldn't refuse an innocent request from such a cheerful, little girl. Oblivious to the truth behind Edward's reaction, she agreed. "All right, I accept it."

Edward felt like he could spirit away.

Her Majesty giggled and clasped her hands together, which soon evolved into a series of sobs as she called for her husband's name._ "Oh, Albeeert! Why did you leave me?"_

John Brown pulled out a puppet and comforted her, the other two servants in white prepared if she needed them, too. Even if it was an unusual trait from a Queen of England, she realized how her love for Albert ran.

Returning to her regal state, Her Majesty gave her congratulations to both of the participants and to the families who attended the event. The one-eyed boy and his butler were doing a great job at staying in the shadows, naught intentions of getting any sort of involvement.

Elizabeth lightly pulled his sleeve to catch his attention. "It _is_ fine for her to visit, right, dearest brother?"

He regained most of his composure and readjusted his tie. "Y-Yes, she is more than welcome to our manor."

Elizabeth exclaimed a sound of joy and twirled Daniella around. For a thirteen-year-old girl, she harboured the strength of a well-trained soldier. Daniella suspected it ran in the family, considering it's a line of English knights serving the monarchy for who knows how long. Now Daniella understood why Edward would be so protective of a bright candle like her.

"Yay! Now I have a new friend, wear cute, frilly clothes, and — oh! Decorate Ciel's manor together! We might need to spruce it up and have Paula —"

Hearing his name mentioned in one of Elizabeth's plans made him flinch at what may become of his manor's fate. "Come, Sebastian, let's go. I don't want to hear the end of it."

Sebastian bowed and followed in pursuit, "Understood."

* * *

** [ . . . ]**

* * *

The sun slipped behind the lined silhouettes of the city, orange hues painted on the colder shades of blue and the stars found a way to shine its faint glimmer. Midford's family bid their farewells to Her Majesty and Daniella, leaving her with the Queen herself.

"Miss Trivett?" Phipps called. "We shall now depart to Buckingham Palace. Further details will be explained during our departure."

She answered with an immediate "all right," and bowed as Her Majesty went first to ride the carriage. Entering the second carriage, Daniella glanced at Charles Grey, who greeted her with a wrinkled nose and a slanted gaze.

Not surprised in the slightest.

* * *

**(*)- **_Excerpt from "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exupery._

**(*)- **_This is no joke. Go and search big_ben_clock on Twitter and you will see it only tweets "BONG BONG BONG BONG BONG". Whoever made that has a lot of free time._

**Author's Notes: **Now going to school. Not much time again, as usual. Last week was hardly a vacation at all. It didn't feel like a vacation. I also got into RP and met such nice people so far. And thank you, thank you, _thank you _to Lydia Knightly for proofreading! ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

Thanks for everything! Glad to know someone still takes their time to read this down to this author's note.


	4. III: Smile

**A/N**: I'm sorry for taking so long... again, and I can't believe I almost take this all for granted again. It's almost nostalgic to be here, tbh ;^^ And for that, I am grateful that you're here.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter III**

* * *

She could not shake the nagging sense at the back of her mind; a hollow voice whispering something she forgot, but it became unintelligible chatters when it reached her ears. The victory was a nice wave of confidence, but it's shallow at best. The event's activities had a familiar motion, a familiar feeling coursing through her veins, and she would always lose sight of it as soon as the answers appeared in front of her. Running her fingers through her hair and pacing around the chambers as she huffs, she sees it all as a loss on her part.

Daniella was well aware of how the former Secretarial Officer died and stunned the public, questioning on how a kind soul and a true guardian leave sooner than the drug mules scattering about. They loved Earl Pablo Talton. They would surely hate her, the simple woman who took his beloved title.

Then hate her, they will. She didn't come for a noble cause, but for the answers only she'd benefit.

The space of her assigned chambers is as wide as their living room and, for once, she did feel like a noble coaxed with a strange, welcoming warmth. Her king-sized bed is set near the four-pane window with the royal blue curtains tied on each side, a full view of the sun descending behind the silhouettes of the buildings. Shelves were lined with famed novels and, to her luck, Dickens' collections sat together in a single file. Exhaling, she fell on her bed as the cushions engulfed her whole. She may as well savour the brief moments of peace before the ceremony and the work.

She was three inches below Phipps' shoulder, so she had to tilt her head up to meet his face as he gave her several instructions on certain etiquettes to display — "observe a low curtsey to Her Majesty and the royal families, keep her face turned towards the sovereign" — while avoiding to meet his eyes, focusing on the little brown mole on his chin. Listening closely, it doesn't throw the casual hint of deception and so much as a smile to initiate humour, against his rational expression.

Etiquette. It wasn't a distasteful word, but inevitably a bother. Daniella rarely presented something as gallant as a polite bow and fluently saying, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance," before she came here.

But what was the old saying? "When in Rome, do as the Romans do"? After all, what good would bring if she dared to voice out her complaints? She suffered months of mastering manners fit for the ladies, the beautiful and delicate wallflowers in suffocating corsets.

She has every bloody right to claim the promised reward for painfully ripping several crucial months out of her lifeline.

"Also," interrupted Grey, "it was once the former Royal Guardian's chambers. Feel honoured, you have his blessing."

Had she not been exhausted, she would've found his mischief entertaining. Phipps turned and sent a look at him. "Don't be too alarmed. The late officer's room is two floors above us was kept for preservation."

She distanced herself from them for a few inches, following behind the pair. "I'm not the type to worry over an undead spirit," she said dryly. Daniella was more worried if she might start lashing out in a fit of impulse. From the men she saw and passed through the streets, they'd keep their hair short and slicked or wear a lavish tie, but his were unkempt and the strands, reaching the middle of his back, swayed with the light of the halls in its own free form.

He offered her a closed-eyed smile in return and batted his eyelashes, long and silver. Thirty seconds in and she knew she will catch future exasperations from his own noticeable arrogance. "Then that's good to know."

Daniella scanned the neat handwriting scribbled the directions to the closing ceremony; it was polite of Phipps to leave her a memo if she ever forgot. No matter how much everything that happened began to sink in, and it continues to swell her with pride and euphoria, she wished to know a certain redhead's well-being. The Undertaker included, as he was the reason her foot is standing here.

A knock came on the door. "Excuse me, Lady Daniella. Is everything all right there?"

"Yes." Daniella nodded her head, "everything is fine."

The maid entered the room with a smile grace upon her lips. She had straight, caramel hair tied in a tight curl at the back of the head, donning a white apron pinned to her bodice. "My name is Karen, young mistress." Karen did a graceful curtsey and lifted her head. "I'll be assisting your preparations for the ceremony."

**.**

Her hand gently touched her head, hair stiff and tightly held together in a bun, but not a single strand was out of place.

Daniella sat on her desk and ran her fingers along the spines of the books collecting dust until one caught her eye: Our Mutual Friend. Daniella lit up and took it from the pile. A strange habit she picked up out of nowhere when, before, she had nothing to read and little to time to do so. She ran to her chair and leant back as she crossed her leg.

_"In these times of ours, though concerning the exact year there is no need to be precise, a boat of dirty and disreputable appearance —"_

Daniella flinched at the sound of banging on the door, nearly dropping the book from her lap. She hasn't even finished one damn chapter. Was the painstaking process of fixing her hair has already consumed her remaining hours?

"Get a move on. It's best to be early," called the irritated voice of Charles Grey.

Opening the door, Daniella met those silver eyes glowering down at her; cold, impatient, and the impression of being stuck with an unwelcomed guest. Seeing Earl Grey in the flesh and every minuscule detail to prove the fact, she felt her own eyes grew big. _Whoa . . . _

He was shorter up close, and she could even make eye contact without lifting her head.

A brief silence pervaded the border between her room and the hallway until she heard the spiteful click of a tongue. His good looks were such a waste on him and it was something she would never dare admit. In fact, there are many things she would never admit, like the very sight of how he curl his lips, sharp silver eyes would look down on her. So full of himself.

Unfortunately, she will have to deal with it.

"Took you long enough, and don't let them wait. Do you plan to disappoint Her Majesty already?"

Daniella gave him her best smile, that same smile he gave her before and clasped her hands together. "I would never dream of it," she said. "And I answered as soon as I can, didn't I?"

Men, Daniella thought as she rolled her still closed eyes. Look at that smile of his, as if it's real, but no different from hers. So play nice, keep stretching the corners of your mouth, don't let the lightest of scowls slip through —

Grey scowled. What was the point of this? "Women . . . ," he murmured in contempt and abruptly picked up her arm. "Let's go."

She flared her nostrils, pulling her arm back and maintaining an acceptable distance away from each other. I can hear you, you know, though her mouth didn't make a sound. It was better than pointless banters.

"What are you staring at for?"

"I was simply assessing my new acquaintance." She grinned. "What's wrong? Are you afraid that you'll turn into stone?"

Charles rolled his eyes. "As if," he spat. "I have nothing to fear the likes of you."

"You'll see." Her tone was too sweet, too fake, too obvious she's trying to hide her irritation, and she wanted to end it. "Ah, and there's no need to fight. Let's be on each other's good side, no?"

"Whatever floats your boat," he said. "All you have to do is walk down the aisle and focus straight ahead or keep eye contact on Her Majesty to keep you from getting nervous. Do not look at the guests; otherwise, you will turn into stone."

"I see." She stifled a laugh. "Like a bride would."

"What, no, don't walk like one, idiot," he interjected.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Right, right."

Again, the mood died down. She instilled her vision to up ahead, eyeing the entrance to the ceremonial room. Charles raised his brows as he looked at the woman beside him. "Are you always this naïve?"

"Hm?" She raised her head, but she merely did one glance and looked away. Daniella heard him but chose to pretend. She had no time to handle this nonsense. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

He breathes from his nose. "I said nothing." Charles moved his eyes away and turned his attention to the doors. "Here we are. I'll go ahead and you wait for the doors to open, and that's your signal."

Standing in front of the door, Grey went ahead, leaving her alone to face the inevitable. Daniella rubbed her palms and, admittedly, now finding this whole thing nerve-wracking. The mental expectations of knowing there would be fanciful preparations and a large audience wasn't enough to prepare her for the actual situation.

When the doors opened slowly to reveal the brilliant light, Daniella gulped and took in one deep breath, a voice continuously repeated in her mind, resembling Charles in great detail, sitting down with his legs crossed and a wide grin materialising on his face as locks of hair fall between his eyes:

_"It will be over soon."_


End file.
